war

It is because of the war that I know how good a man my father is. Because he left home when no one else would want to, because he fought a battle everyone else was frightened of. There are people living beneath our floorboards, people we feed and tell no one about. They tell me they owe my father their lives, that a life is everything.

But even so. There are days when my father comes home and shouts and we none of us want to be near him. There are days when he throws things and hits my mother and we thank the Lord for the war because we see him so much less.

The people beneath the floorboards never mention these moments. They are a mother and father and two boys, the oldest is my age, eight. He is not very good at reading. He hasn’t been to school in three years. All of them say they will leave France, soon. They don’t ever want to go back. Going back would mean wearing the star of David and being frightened someone will kill them. We don’t want to go back, either. We’d have to spend more time with Dad.